Chapter 4
The transition from the quiet corridor to the opulent grand salon was jarring. The clatter of fine silver against porcelain and the low hum of affluent conversations provided a rhythmic backdrop to the holiday festivities. Nora kept her head held high, though her heart pounded a frantic rhythm against her ribs. She navigated the carved walnut furniture and the burgundy velvet sofas with agonizing care, pushing the wheelchair directly toward the massive family dining table.
As they entered the amber illumination of the room, the guests nearest the doors stopped speaking. The silence began to spread like a drop of ink in clear water.
From across the polished marble floor, Dante Rowe continued to converse with the wealthy donors, but his hyper-vigilant senses were already on alert. He excused himself from a conversation about the harbor patrols, his broad shoulders parting the sea of guests as he turned toward the sudden lull in the room.
"Excuse me, gentlemen," Dante stated, his deep voice leaving no room for argument.
Dante walked slowly, his dark eyes scanning the perimeter of the room. He spotted the open service doors, and beneath the glowing light of the chandeliers, he saw the housemaid pushing a wheelchair. He recognized Nora instantly. He had always noticed her gentle nature, the quiet, respectful way she cared for Poppy when the rest of the world was too busy.
But as he drew closer, Dante saw who was sitting in the chair.
His father, Walter, sat rigidly, his face a mask of furious pride, a folded lap blanket covering his lower body.
"Dante is moving," Vincent noted quietly, stepping out of the shadows to shadow his boss.
"Stay back, Vincent," Dante ordered, picking up his pace. "Let them approach."
Dante watched as Nora closed the distance between the service doors and the family table. He saw three-year-old Poppy walking closely beside the wheelchair, her little brown boots stepping in time with the maid.
Isadora Reed was standing near the head of the table, holding a crystal glass of champagne. Her champagne satin gown shimmered like spun gold under the lights. As the silence in the room grew absolute, she finally turned around.
Isadora froze. The elegant public smile she had worn all evening became a rigid, grotesque mask. Her eyes widened as she stared at the wheelchair, sheer, unadulterated panic flashing across her fair, rosy features for a microscopic second before she forced her aristocratic composure back into place.
Dante stopped moving entirely. His entire body went rigid beneath his tailored dark three-piece suit. He looked at his father, processing the fact that the man was clearly alert, furious, and not at all the weak, bedridden invalid Isadora had claimed him to be.
Then, his dark, observant eyes shifted to the folded lap blanket covering his father's missing left leg. The prosthetic was missing.
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The realization that something deeply sinister had occurred in his home cemented itself in his calculating mind.
Dante moved with absolute, predatory grace. He closed the distance across the marble floor in a few long strides, stopping perfectly beside Nora and the wheelchair.
